


The voice, articulation, language, whispering, shouting aloud

by Anonymous



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Angst, Attempted Sexual Assault, Billy Hargrove Needs a Hug, Dark, Dubious Consent, Everyone Is Gay, Gay Billy Hargrove, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, M/M, Not Beta Read, Period-Typical Homophobia, Reference to HIV/AIDS Crisis, Sex Work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-09
Updated: 2019-11-09
Packaged: 2021-01-25 20:09:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21361987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Billy Hargrove needs help, the kind of help that very few people in Hawkins are likely to give. Jim Hopper does his best, which he suspects isn't good enough. The experience stirs something up in him.
Relationships: (sort of) - Relationship, Billy Hargrove & Jim "Chief" Hopper, Billy Hargrove/Jim "Chief" Hopper
Comments: 2
Kudos: 79
Collections: Anonymous





	The voice, articulation, language, whispering, shouting aloud

**Author's Note:**

> A quick note re: the HIV/AIDS tag. It is a point of discussion but no characters in this story actually have the diagnosis or disease.

Jim is surprised to get the call. It’s been a long time since Brenda reached out to him. Between watching a little girl save the whole entire world and entirely changing his whole world by bringing a little girl into it, he hasn’t thought about Brenda’s truck-stop diner out on the edge of Hawkins in what feels like a long time.

“Jim? Jim, it’s Brenda. Look, I’m sorry to call you so late…”

The second he registers Brenda’s mild, seen-everything, cannot-be-phased voice on the other end of the phone, this feels familiar. Police work in a small town.

Brenda would’ve called 911 if she had a situation that needed a quick response. A burglary. A medical emergency. She only calls Jim directly – at home no less – when she has a situation that needs discretion. Sensitivity. And she trusts Jim to provide it.

At least more than she trusts the other jackasses on the Hawkins Police Department.

Yep, no doubt Brenda’s got a lot lizard with a bleeding face and a miserable story. Brenda will have found her in the women’s bathroom or behind the dumpster and ushered her into the diner’s business office with promise of a hot meal.

The john will be long gone, barreling anonymously in his truck through the night or making his way back to his home in Hawkins. And Jim will be up all night, too, driving the woman to the hospital, taking a statement, leaving messages for county case workers.

And then the woman will get picked up from the hospital, usually by her boyfriend or her pimp (sometimes one in the same guy); Jim will watch her walk out with a look of total resignation in her eyes, and the whole cycle starts again.

Rise and repeat.

He scrubs his face.

“Jim? Are you listening? I’ve got a boy here.”

“A boy?” _That’s a new one. _“How old?”

“A young man. Late teens. I think he’s in high school.”

“A hitchhiker?”

“No. I mean, maybe that’s how he got here, but he’s local. I think he goes to the high school. Hawkins High School.”

“Brenda, why are calling me?” Jim asks, baffled.

“Jim, I _found_ him behind the diner.”

The way she says it clues him in, but he clarifies: “You mean like one of your girls?”

“Yes, exactly like.”

_Oh, shit, _Jim thinks. “He was attacked?”

“He’s beat up, scuffed up, and his pants were undone. I think someone pushed him out of their cab and drove away.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“He says no hospitals, no cops. He keeps trying to leave,” Brenda says. “Could you get over here?”

Jim’s already standing up, pulling on his boots. “He doesn’t know you’re calling me, does he?”

“Of course not,” Brenda says. “By the way, I’m almost sure I recognize this kid from basketball games.” Brenda’s grandniece is on the cheerleading squad. “His name is Billy.”

With that, she hangs up. Jim gapes at the phone for a second. _Could it be…? _

He glances over to Jane’s room. Her light is on, and she’s standing in her doorway, a knowing expression on her face. “I gotta go, kid,” he says. “I’m sorry, it’s – “

“- an emergency,” she finishes for him. He could swear she doesn’t look as annoyed as usual.

\-- -- --

It’s not a long drive to Brenda’s Diner; it feels endless, though, as Jim spends the whole way contemplating the very real possibility that Billy Hargrove was assaulted turning tricks at the local truck stop. He supposes it could be someone else. But the fact of the matter is that Hargrove is the only teenage basketball-playing Billy currently making appearances on the police blotter.

Every time he considers it, Jim’s mind short-circuits. He can’t picture Billy Hargrove without picturing Steve Harrington’s puffy, purple face. By the time Jim got to Billy, in the aftermath of that long and unreal night, the kid was still mostly knocked out from the sedative administered by his quick-thinking little sister.

(The younger kids attempted to tell Jim the story _all at once at the top of their lungs_ but he eventually got the gist.)

Jim dispatched Nancy and Jonathan to return Billy and Max home. He watched them load Billy into the Camaro, Jonathan at the wheel. Nancy took Max, the two of them already working on a cover story.

Jim remembers a feeling of relief at not having to deal with that wildcard Billy Hargrove himself. What little energy he had left that night was reserved for Jane.

The Blazer crests a small hill, and diner’s neon sign snaps Jim to the present moment.

Billy Hargrove hooking at a truck stop. It feels as unreal as monsters from another dimension.

Well.

Jim exits the truck and makes his way into the diner, through the restaurant and to the office behind the kitchen. He knocks softly on the door and hears Brenda’s equally soft summons to enter.

When he gently opens the door, there he finds – who else? – Billy Hargrove half-sprawled on a cracked leather sofa.

Brenda stands nearby, arms crossed, worried. 

Billy looks rough under the yellowish ceiling lights. As Brenda said over the phone, he’s been knocked around: split lip, like someone smacked him, hard, right across the mouth, and bruises mottling his bare arms. Jim suspects there’s more under his clothes. He’s dressed in a muscle t-shirt and black boots and tight jeans (fly now secure), all peppered in gravel.

To Jim’s dismay, there’s a wet patch on the denim of Billy’s left upper thigh; he can guess what that is.

When the kid’s intense blue eyes flick up to meet Jim’s, it’s also evident that he’s been crying in the not-too-distant past.

He’s not crying now.

Billy jerks his body – and then visibly winces – at Jim’s appearance. He looks like he wants to lift himself up out of fear or rage. Jim and Brenda jerk in response, thinking he’s about to bolt. They both raise their hands in a placating gesture: _stay, stay put, please. _

After a tense second, Billy loosens – sort of – and slumps back down. He smirks at his hostess. “_Et tu_, Brenda?”

Brenda looks confused. In spite of the gravity of the situation, Jim rolls his eyes. “Don’t give her a hard time, Julius.” He comes in and closes the door behind him.

“I’m just saying, I feel a little betrayed here,” Billy says almost cheerfully, as if they’re having a friendly conversation. “I thought we agreed, no cops.”

“I didn’t agree to anything,” Brenda says. “You need help.”

“Don’t we all, lady,” Billy agrees.

Brenda turns to Jim. “He needs a hospital,” she says firmly.

Billy: “Not happening.”

“You don’t have to press charges to get help –“ Brenda starts, and Billy barks out a laugh.

“Press charges? Lady, do you even understand what’s going on? I’m not exactly an innocent little lamb here. I said ‘no cops’ because it’s me who’s gonna end up in cuffs –“

“Jim’s not that kind of cop,” Brenda interrupts. “That’s why I called him.”

“Is that so?” says Billy, raising an eyebrow – _suggestively?_ – at Jim, and Jim’s just about had it now.

“Come with me, Billy.”

“That an order, Chief?”

“It’s whatever is necessary to get you out of Brenda’s hair so she can go back to her job.”

“It’s been no trouble,” Brenda says. “Take care of yourself, Billy.”

Billy hauls himself up from the couch with a huff, straightens his back, and offers a surprisingly proper salute to Brenda. _Well, Neil Hargrove’s a vet, _Jim thinks. He holds the door open, trying not to flinch as Billy limps past.

\-- -- --

Jim puts Billy in the front passenger seat of the Blazer to create less of an impression of being _under arrest._ At the sight of him wincing down onto the seat, he decides to head straight to hospital. Never mind what the kid says. They’ll hash it out when they get there.

“Seatbelt,” he orders, and Billy throws him a look of disbelief but does as he’s told. Jim puts the truck in gear and goes, driving more gently than usual.

They’re sailing in absolute stony silence through the night when Billy speaks. It’s like a radio turning on by itself, and gives Jim a little jolt.

“So what kind of cop are you?” he asks, his voice a little rusty.

“What do you mean?” Jim responds.

“Are you the kind that if I blow you, you’d drop me off downtown?”

With a squeal of tires, the Blazer careens to the side of road. Jim throws her into park and keeps the engine running.

Doesn’t want to give the impression that he’s preparing to settle in to have his cock sucked.

Billy looks at him; his normally kinetic body is perfectly still, and those strangely pretty eyes are glittering in the neon glow of the dashboard lights. There’s a dangerous, feral edge to him.

Is it anxiety? Excitement? Drugs?

Whatever it is, Billy’s radiating the same manic energy Jim felt in the presence of so many street hustlers on his beat in New York. A “nothing to lose, I could die today, let me fuck with you” kind of energy.

He never expected to encounter that vibe in Hawkins. He certainly didn’t anticipate that it would attempt to seduce him.

“Whaddya say, Chief? Do we have a deal? I can make you feel good. I’m good at guys like you.”

“Billy, shut up,” Jim grips the steering wheel and speaks in his calmest yet firmest voice. Joyce would be proud. “This goes without saying but. So we’re clear. No deal.”

Pause. Meaningful eye contact through the shadows of the Blazer’s interior.

“And don’t ever say anything like that in the presence of another Indiana law enforcement officer. You _will_ get murdered and no one will find your body.”

Billy cocks an eyebrow and his body seems to relax, although Jim can’t quite tell if it’s in relief or disappointment.

Maybe the kid himself doesn’t know.

“I _will_ get murdered if you take me to the hospital,” Billy says finally, mimicking Jim’s tone. “How do you think my old man’s gonna take it? Tonight he kicked my ass and took my car keys. He finds out I snuck out, got picked up at a truck stop covered in jizz? Proof I’m a fag, _and_ he’s got a hospital bill on top of it.” He huffs. “Then there’s you trying to explain this whole situation to the emergency room doc of Shit Farm, Indiana. I bet they see this all the time, in between the broken ankles and the dog bites.” Pause. “They can’t all be Brendas, Chief.”

Jim doesn’t know what to say to that. Several responses spark in his brain and then fizzle before he says them out loud.

_You could report your dad._ He knows the likelihood of a 17-year-boy, nearly a man, doing that. Besides, it’s hard to get charges to stick when the victim looks like most people’s idea of a troublemaker.

Then there is, as Billy put it, _this whole situation_. Jim doesn’t know what to make of it. He’s in over his head. He doesn’t know what Hawkins General Hospital would make of it all if he told them the truth. _What is the truth? How badly is Billy hurt? _He has no idea how Billy would be treated. It was rough in New York, and people like Billy had their own neighborhoods and bars and clubs there.

Hawkins is a whole different planet.

Jim’s seen some truly horrifying shit, but he realizes he can’t quite imagine the terror of being Billy and having the story of what happened tonight get to the wrong people. (Which is most people.) 

Jim glances at Billy. He’s in the seat, arms crossed, eyes fixed warily on Jim.

Ready for anything.

“Wanna smoke?”

Without waiting for answer, Jim digs his cigarettes and lighter of his pocket and hands them to Billy, who takes them with a nod of thanks. A moment later, Jim cracks the window and lights up himself. Soon the Blazer is filled with tobacco.

Jim breathes in deeply, imagining the smoke seeping into their lungs like haunted air from the Upside Down.

Everything is toxic, down there and up here.

“If you’re hurt… _badly_… we need to get you checked out,” he says to Billy. And then he blurts, awkwardly, “And, and if you do this a lot, you should let them look you over–“ 

Billy shakes his head and lurches up, even though it clearly hurts to do so. “No! No. Look. I’m OK. He tried to… We were fighting about the rubber. I always make them use one. Even just for giving head. Friend of mine taught me that.”

Beat.

“I would’ve made you use one, Chief.”

And Billy flashes a roguish smile and winks at Jim, and Jim (fuck him) feels himself get hot. There is a possibility his cheeks are turning very slightly red. He thanks Jesus it’s dark.

_Get a grip. _

“What happened?” he asks finally.

Billy sobers and pulls on his cigarette. He’s thinking, perhaps making a decision. After a long exhale, he starts talking.

“We were fooling around in his truck. I gave him a handy. He made a mess all over my jeans. He wanted more. I said, ‘Wrap it up.’ He said, ‘Hell, no.’ I tried to leave. He tried to make me stay. Hit me. I don’t think he expected me to fight back. Stupid fuck was a brawler, but I’m used to that. He got sick of me, finally. Just opened the door and pushed me out, dropped me right on the ground and drove away. I dragged myself over to the dumpster. I just needed to rest a minute. Then I would’ve hitched back home, but Brenda the Good Samaritan found me. And here we are.”

By the time this monologue comes to an end, Jim has made a decision. He has no idea if it’s the right one. One thing is for certain: there is no protocol for this. A familiar feeling of late.

“I’ll drop you off two blocks from your house,” he tells Billy. “You take it from there.”

And silence. Billy stares straight ahead into the night-filled windshield. He doesn’t say anything but closes his eyes briefly; Jim can tell, even in the dark, that his thick lashes are full of unshed tears.

“Hrrmph,” Jim says, and puts the truck in gear. They’re back on the road. Jim knows where Billy lives – he’s dropped off Max after hangouts with Jane. It’s not a long drive from here.

He gives Billy some time to regain his composure. Eventually he can’t contain himself any longer.

“Billy, are you doing this for money?” he asks, voice sounding much too loud to his own ears. “Or is it, you know, for fun?”

“A little bit of this, a little bit of that,” Billy says, smiling like the goddamn Cheshire Cat again.

If Jim were an actual idiot, he might believe that Bill is unaffected by everything that has happened tonight.

“Whatever it is, you gotta stop. It’s not safe,” Jim says.

“Yeah, I think I might understand that,” Billy responds, defensive. “I can take care of myself.”

“But there’s also a disease…” _He is so out of his depth._

“I know all about the gay cancer,” Billy snaps. He vehemently snubs out his cigarette in the truck’s ashtray. “You know we moved here from San Francisco, right? You should. Your daughter is like best friends with Max. Well, it’s not exactly breaking news to people who aren’t hicks.”

Then Billy visibly flinches, like he’s catching himself.

“Um… sorry. Sir. It’s just, I knew people who had it. And people who have it.”

Jim sighs and keeps his eyes trained on the road. “You don’t have to call me ‘sir,’ Billy. And, it’s OK. I understand it’s, uh… it’s a touchy subject. I knew people, too. Maybe I didn’t know them as well as you. But I knew some people. “

Billy doesn’t answer. They both stop talking, as if they’ve used up their ration of words for the night; which, maybe, is exactly what’s happened. Jim can’t remember the last time he spoke for so long about something so unspeakable.

Eventually Jim arrives at the place where he told Billy they would go. The silence isn’t broken. Billy just turns and gives him a significant, knowing look that Jim can’t begin to parse. Then he lets himself out the Blazer and begins walking slowly toward his house on Cherry Street.

Jim wonders if the slight limp is from his father or the trucker.

Jim didn’t park so far away from the Hargrove household that he can't make out when Billy arrives at his destination and goes around the back. Jim figures Billy makes it safely through the backdoor or a bedroom window because, when he cruises by the house ten minutes later, everything is quiet and dark.

He starts to make his way back toward the cabin, toward Jane, toward his life in Indiana, bizarre as it might be.

He promises himself he won’t think about New York, or people in New York; he won’t dwell on Billy Hargrove; and he won’t picture Billy Hargrove’s body and eyes and mouth forming around a cigarette; and he absolutely will never again think about the way his cock twitched when Billy Hargrove offered him a blowjob.


End file.
